Ruth Downie - Ruso and the Root of All Evils

‘Did he usually fetch his own breakfast?’

‘People are always in and out of the kitchen, sir. Cook gets fed up with it.’

‘And did he look well?’

Flaccus, clearly regretting ever admitting to remembering Ruso, said, ‘He never looked well, sir.’

‘Who was in the kitchen yesterday morning?’

‘Just the staff, sir.’

‘Nobody unusual?’

‘No, sir.’

Not wishing to imply a suspicion of the widow, Ruso tried, ‘How about Claudia or Ennia?’

‘Oh, no, sir!’ This, apparently, would have been a memorable event. Neither of these two had ever been seen in the kitchen before mid-morning.

Ruso frowned. This was not proving as helpful as he had hoped. ‘You’re sure he just had the same food and drink as everyone else?’

‘Not the drink, sir. He always has — had his own medicine. The cook mixes him up honey and rosewater. Just that, sir. Nothing that would do no harm.’

‘And nobody else drinks it?’

Flaccus shook his head. ‘No, sir. Well — not usually. But after Master Severus died, the steward came down to the kitchen and asked a lot of questions. And he made us all eat the food and share out the rest of the medicine. That’s how we knew Severus must have been poisoned. But nobody was ill.’

So Zosimus, the responsible steward, had been making inquiries of his own. Personally Ruso would not have risked poisoning the entire staff by sharing everything out, but presumably he had been hoping to force a confession. ‘Well, it looks as though he’s satisfied himself that none of you was involved.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Flaccus did not seem particularly cheered by this news. ‘But when Cook asked him what’s going to happen to us he just said we’ve got to wait for orders from Rome.’

‘I’m afraid that’s true,’ said Ruso. ‘Severus didn’t die under this roof. That may be a good thing for you, if not for me. But I’m not a lawyer. I don’t know what’s going to happen to any of us.’

Flaccus sniffed. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

‘What I do know is that it’s not going to be helped by listening to worrying gossip. Now go back to your duties and try to ignore anything you hear, because if none of us knows until we hear from Rome, nothing you’re told can be true, can it?’

The boy managed a wan smile. ‘No, sir.’

A sizeable gang of dingily attired visitors was rolling up the drive as Ruso left, presumably on the way to offer condolences to the grieving widow and sister. The gatekeeper’s face was impassive as he asserted that he couldn’t answer questions without permission from the steward, but his one eye was bright. Ruso suspected these were the most interesting couple of days he had had in a very long time.

Fuscus would not want a suspected poisoner visiting potential voters on his behalf, but Ruso called on the pretext of collecting the canvassing list anyway. The gods alone knew what that message to Rome had contained, especially since Probus had been the one to tell Fuscus the bad news about the murder. He needed to put his own side of the story to the nearest member of the Gabinii as soon as possible.

This time he was left to wait out on one of the benches facing the street. He was not sorry. The ache in his foot was so persistent that he was relieved to lean back against ‘Vote for Gabinius Fuscus!’, stretch both legs out in front of him and close his eyes.

He was conscious of the warm wall hard against his back. Of the smell of fried eggs and old vegetables. Of the passing slap of sandals, and the cackle of an old woman laughing. Of a small voice at the back of his mind that was telling him he was in serious trouble.

The only way to prove to the Senator’s investigator that he had not murdered Severus would be to present the real culprit. Despite his bold assurances to Claudia that he had dealt with this sort of thing before, this was a situation unlike anything he had faced in Britannia. His assertion that he knew what he was doing had been little more than wishful thinking. He did not know the proper way to conduct a murder investigation. Indeed, he did not even know if there was a proper way.

Ruso propped the heel of his sore foot on the toes of the whole one and tried to reflect on his experiences in Britannia. There must be some conclusions he could draw: some fruit of his experience that he could bring to this current crisis.

The business of the murdered bar girls in Deva had taught him that no one in authority could be expected to investigate a crime if it were not in his own interests to do so. From the mysterious affair of the antlered god who had caused mayhem on the border, he had learned … what had he learned? That the north of Britannia was a dangerous place. That Tilla’s idea of loyalty was not the same as his own. And in both cases, that the truth only seemed to emerge after a great deal of unproductive, uncomfortable and unwilling blundering about. Precisely the sort of blundering about that a man suspected of murder was unlikely to be free to undertake.

He had just reached this unhelpful conclusion when a hoarse voice announced, ‘You’re that doctor!’

He opened his eyes to see the hulking figure of one of Probus’ security guards, a retired gladiator whose hefty shoulders and flattened nose served to deter both burglars and clients seeking loans without collateral.

‘Remember me?’

Ruso straightened his back, put both feet on the ground and prepared to fend off whatever trouble the man had been sent to make. ‘You work for Probus.’

‘You come to the house courting Miss Claudia.’

‘So I did,’ agreed Ruso, although it was hard now to remember why. All the signs had been there from the beginning.

‘I thought you might want to know, sir, my lad’s done well for himself. He’s in Municipal Water Distribution.’

Ruso gave a smile that acknowledged the man’s obvious pride, wondered which lad they were talking about and said he was delighted to hear it.

‘Not a scrap of bother with the leg, sir. Not even a limp.’

Something stirred in the recesses of Ruso’s memory. ‘Broken femur, wasn’t it?’

The mangled face split into a grin. ‘That’s the one. Only eight years old, he was. You done a lovely job, sir.’

The father’s delight was clear, as was his gratitude, and Ruso felt his spirits lift. It was good to be reminded of a time when he had done something right.

‘I’m glad to see you after all these years, sir,’ continued the man. The bench swayed as he seated himself next to Ruso. ‘I reckon I owe you a favour.’ The reason for the unexpected familiarity became clear when he leaned closer and murmured, ‘If you don’t mind me saying, sir, there’s something you ought to know. But you won’t have to let on who told you.’

‘I won’t,’ Ruso promised, his spirits rising even further. He was not alone in the battle to clear his name. There were people here who remembered him. People who were willing to help. He had come home.

‘About your sister.’

Ruso’s optimism collapsed. If rumours were circulating about Severus’ designs on Flora, it could reflect badly on her no matter how innocent she might be. He would have to find a way to defend Flora’s reputation as well as his own.

What the guard proceeded to tell him, however, was completely unexpected. It had nothing to do with Flora. It was that Marcia had recently approached Probus in the hope of borrowing against her forthcoming dowry.

‘What? Are you absolutely sure?’

The man did not know how much Marcia had sought, but according to what he had overheard, she had already consulted several financiers. Probus had refused her request, as presumably had all the others.